Chapter Text
There once lived a flock of starlings at the sunny edges of a deep and magical wood. The starlings were a simple and contented breed, dancers by inclination, who rushed hither and yon in great waves of wings, each and every feather on each and every bird fluttering smoothly and gleefully into the current of the flock. They would sing and dance in the bright warm sky until they grew hungry, then land and peck at the ground for seeds, or tired, they would settle in the great old trees to sleep until sunrise again. It was a life as simple as it was happy.
It was a warm spring day when one starling swept down over the trees, guided as she always was by the flow of her flock around and above her. She had passed over this part of the woods countless times, as had they all, but today, as she glided over it, she breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh rush of the air in her wings, and a sweet, decadent smell swept shockingly past her beak. Her eyes flashed open. She looked around, trying to find where it came from. So distracted was she in her search that she knocked her wing against her neighbor in formation, who squaked indignantly at the intrusion. The starling quickly apologized and tried to return her mind to the dance, but she lagged fractions of seconds behind each twist and turn after that. Her curiosity ruled her.
When next the sweet smell returned to her, the starling wasted no time in breaking down toward it. As she fell from the sky, the bright, darling pink petals of an enormous, flowering bush caught her eye, and she knew that she had found it. She landed with force in the space between two flowers, and the aroma that shook from them immediately engulfed her. Each individual blossom was as large as she was. The petals curled around each other in strange and artful shapes. What beautiful flowers, thought the starling. I wish I had hands, that I could properly hold them. Still, she brushed her head against the petals, and they were softer than any feather she had ever touched. She rubbed greedily against them until her dark back glimmered with pollen.
She flitted from branch to branch, observing them and the way the flowers fluttered in the breeze. To her surprise, she found hanging from one of the branches a cluster of rich red berries. What beautiful berries, thought the starling. I wish I had a tongue that could properly taste them. Still, she pecked at a berry until it burst in her mouth, and it was sweeter than any seed she had ever eaten. She ate greedily until her pale belly shone with colorful juice.
Just then the starling heard a familiar river of sound pass overhead, and she looked up to see her flock’s twisting dance rustle against the sharp green treetops. She raced toward them, singing lyrically of what she had found in the woods, but none of them listened. She flew and flew and flew until she was in the middle of them all, chirping and peeping all the way, but around her, the whirl of her brothers and sisters moved as if to avoid the unexpected obstacle of a wayward branch. None of them seemed to notice she was there, let alone recognize her.
Unsettled, the starling retreated into the wood and perched in the arms of the pink berry bush, watching her flock dance for the first time from a distance. The smell of the blossoms comforted her. The sun was warm where it fell in patches through the foliage. The starling looked around and decided to build a nest.
She flitted about the clearing, gathering bits of fallen fur, the shivering branches of old foliage, and tangles of dried-out roots in her eager claws. But returning to the berry bush with her materials, the starling grew shy. The verdant, shimmering leaves, elegantly twisting branches, extravagant displays of flowers and demure clusters of sumptuous berries of the pink bush put to shame those things that she had worked so diligently to bring forward. She knew these materials would keep her warm against the nighttime chill, dry against the morning dew; but she knew, too, that no matter how she fashioned her nest together, it would be dead, and dry, and dirty, and the bush would be glorious, and alive, and wonderful. She could never bring herself to lay such things against its plush petals and leathery leaves.
But the starling knew where more suitable things could be found. She had flown over the entire forest countless times before, and she knew exactly what she needed. She took to wing and raced over the treetops: to the shaded creek, for its soft nets of lush moss; to the deep-dark caves, for their forgotten patches of finely woven spidersilk; to the rich red lake, for its heady shore of clay. All across the land she flew on the deft wings of a falcon, searching with the keen eye of an eagle for things lovely enough to keep. Only when her burden grew too heavy to bear did the starling make way back to the clearing.
But as she approached – a rustle, a snap beyond the foliage. The starling’s heart braced in her chest. She softened the beat of her wings to the hush of an owl and approached, hugging the shadowy boughs of the tall, dark trees. Finally, she wound through the last clusters of occluding foliage, and as her small and watchful eyes adjusted to the light, she gasped.
A fox was creeping toward the berry bush. His snout was long, his tail longer, and his long limbs were flecked at the end with harsh claws that flashed in the light with his every step. He grew closer and closer. He licked his lips, and his tongue was long, and his eyes were searching keenly, hungrily, for fruit.
The berries that dotted the soft green leaves were many. There were more, perhaps, hanging from its limbs than the starling could ever eat in a single spring. But the fox’s stomach was a cavernous hollow between his protruding ribs, and the starling was greedy.
She dropped her charge and drove down upon him, dashing her talons against his shimmering black nose with an incensed shriek. His sharp yellow teeth flashed in his gums as he yelped in surprise, and she soared up and then down against him again, catching him on the ear. He stumbled backward, then turned tail and ran.
She chased him out of the woods. She chased him through the meadow. She chased him all the way to the great wide river at the edge of the glen and didn’t stop until he leapt across it and away. Only then was she satisfied.
But when the starling flew back, the berry bush was gone. The halo of sunlight that usually fell over it was empty, the cluster of clay and moss that might have been her nest lying deformed in the dirt. She landed on the ground where it normally stood and pecked at it, but it was only dirt. She tore deeply at it with her talons, in case it were hiding beneath, but there was only dirt. She flew across the meadow and back again, in case she had gone to the wrong spot after all, but there was only dirt.
An old man walking on a path below her held up his hand. In his palm lay a healthsome collection of seeds. But the starling was greedy. She flew away, and when she came back again, the man and his seeds were gone, and there was only dirt.
A buzzing bee passed and offered her some honey from their hive. It was sweet, they said, and there was plenty to spare. But the starling was greedy. She flew away and back again, and the bee was gone, and there was only dirt.
The starling’s stomach began to growl. She took to the air and flew in tight circles over the meadow, but each time she returned, there was only dirt. The sun slid down the sky and lingered low in the pocket of the valley. The starling’s wings began to ache. Her small and needy stomach was hollow through the core. She landed heavily on the soft peat where the berries once grew and allowed her head to fall limply onto it, for perhaps the berry-bush would be there when she woke again. She closed her eyes. A river rush of wings passed overhead and did not see her.
Some time later, soft footsteps roused the starling from her slumber. She raised her head and found the starving fox stalking heavily toward her, and though she knew well the shape of his teeth, she couldn’t summon the energy to her wings to flee. She lay her head down, defeated.
The fox approached. She heard his wet nose snuffle at the ground. His sharp claws lacerated the earth to her side. He paced, then returned, then paced, then returned again, and then, finally, collapsed at her side without a sound. As the cold night fell over them, the place where the fox’s leg met the starling’s wing was, it seemed, the only point of heat for miles.